Workshopped at Chicago's renowned Steppenwolf Theatre, this self-consciously crazy and hugely unfunny comedy is set on an aeroplane, where Sugar, the loud-mouthed owner of a chain of stores, is causing the other passengers to consider ejecting at 60,000 feet. While insulting them, she is telling about her pursuit of her 18-year-old son, Chester, who has ripped her off and gone for a luxury weekend in Rio with two bimbos. Unbeknown to Sugar, Chester (portrayed as a crash dummy) and his friends missed their flight, and are currently causing havoc in first class.

At what must have been considerable expense, Pleasance Dome has been transformed into the interior of an airliner, with revolves at either end that flip back and forth to show us economy and first class. The producers clearly have more money than sense, because the script is just not worth the effort: it is an unstructured jumble of preposterous white trash stereotypes - bitchy, camp, and shot through with a misogynist streak a mile wide. It even has sanitary towel jokes.

Curiously, this air disaster of a play is directed by Laurence Boswell, a man of clout and reputation. Why? Did they hand him wads of money in carrier bags or torture him until he agreed? As I left the theatre I recalled Boswell's brilliant Spanish Golden Age season at the Gate 10 years ago, and a tear came to my eye.